


Underwear

by SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff



Series: So Into You [5]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Dream Sex, Eastbourne Conference, F/M, Guest Appearance by Nicola Murrays Tummy, Inappropriate Morning Masturbation, Masturbation, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:46:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29559303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff/pseuds/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff
Summary: Nicola is a little worse for wear the night before her anniversary. Malcolm is a little worse for wear the next morning.
Relationships: James Murray/Nicola Murray, Nicola Murray/Malcolm Tucker
Series: So Into You [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2114823
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	Underwear

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Pulp song Underwear which I very much recommend you accompany this fic with. 
> 
> Not as smutty as previous fics but I... couldnt bear to write any more Nic/James to be honest with you.

The first thing he notices when her hotel room door shuts behind them, is that she's standing far, far too close to him. He can almost write it off as nothing. She's got such an appaling sense of balance, she'd probably stumbled on those ambitious heels whilst he wasn't paying attention, and is now too embarassed to move back and make it obvious. The rate at which she'd been knocking back the large white wines downstairs until he'd (hopefully) discreetly steered her off to bed makes it even more likely that she's just taken a bit of a tumble, and ended up further into his personal space than she'd intended. He can't, or won't, comprehend her hand on his arm and her stupidly tiny feet bracketed by his smart shoes as a statement of intent. Same goes for the way he can actually feel the warmth of her, the soft swell of her belly in that dress, brushing for just a moment against him. It is an accident, and nothing more. How he actually ended up inside her room, rather than simply dropping her off at the right door, is something he will come to question himself on repeatedly. He's Malcolm F Tucker, for Christ's sake, a large part of his whole career is built on spinning sex scandals. Not that that's what's happening here. He's just seeing her home safe, so to speak. 

She giggles, seemingly apropos of nothing, and it takes a physical effort not to smile. Don't bloody encourage her. "Are ye coming back with us lot tomorrow lunchtime?" He asks, wondering if he can somehow arrange to be the only person sharing a car with her back to London. "Hm?" Clearly his question has broken her out of some sort of deep reverie, leaning heavily against the door, her hand still warm through the exceptionally soft shirt he's wearing. They've both misplaced their jackets somewhere along the way, and he can only hope they're not found tangled together in some sort of compromising cloakroom scenario. The jackets. Of course. "Oh-" she begins, finally catching up. "No, I'm off early." He can't help the undignified snort of laughter that follows, at her optimistic assessment of how fit for purpose she'll be tomorrow morning. Early won't factor into it, unless she's got an appointment with the bathroom floor. Perhaps he should stay. Or get someone to stay. Just so she doesn't choke. Or something. "Yeah, no, I'm out of here at eight. James is taking me out for dinner, so. Anniversary." It's a simple enough sentence, or more realistically a collection of fragmented words offered as she rights herself, sits on the edge of the bed and toes off her shoes, but it knocks the wind right out of him. Now he's the one left feeling a little bit sick, disjointed, upended. "Right, aye. Well, have fun. Get some sleep. Have some water." He's gone before she can ask him to get her some, the soft snick of the slow-close door echoing in the thankfully empty corridor. He doesn't stay to see the curve of her arse in that ridiculously tight dress as she stands, bends, picks up one patent black heel and hurls it at the door. 

* * *

The cab ride back from their anniversary dinner seems to take an age, and for once the time is dragged out by sheer, unbridled lust rather than simmering frustration and disappointment. James can hardly keep his hands off her, and she's content to let them wander, relishing in the feeling of safety that comes from having one large, warm hand in her hair, and the other tucked under the waistband of her skirt, pressed against the curve of her tummy beneath her tights with his fingertips just under the lace waistband of her knickers. There's a tension in the air, even as they're tucked up together on the back seat, a sort of wobbling, vibrating thrum of need and want, the sort that catches in the back of your throat. They practically leg it when the cab pulls up, James handing some notes to the cabbie and not waiting for the change before following her inside, his eyes firmly on those legs, that arse, as she takes the stairs with the enthusiasm of a woman much younger. A woman she used to be, perhaps. Somehow, without much pre-amble at all, she ends up semi-naked before he's even closed the curtains, standing at the foot of the bed in just her navy bra and her tights, the soft peach fuzzyness of them slightly obscuring what looks to be a matching navy pair of lacey, delicate little knickers. She looks an absolute picture. No man in his right mind would pass up a chance to just go to her, hold her, sneak a hand down those stupid control tights and make her yelp against the crook of his neck. She's utterly, honestly, finger-shakingly gorgeous. And the worst, the best, the _strangest_ part is that she seems to absolutely know it. 

Without waiting for his approval, she's sliding off her tights, pulling them off the surprisingly delicate arches of her feet and throwing them in the general direction of the laundry basket. Finally she's properly free, there's an almost visible relaxation as her thighs and tummy are released from the confines of her shapewear. God, but her tummy. She's bloody good at hiding it, dressing so as to draw attention away from it, which is absolutely not necessary. At all. It's gorgeous, all soft skin that's somehow reminiscent of butter, and buttercups, and simple, honest bodies coming together. Not to mention the curves of her, the little pouch, the way all her silvery pink stretchmarks seem to converge around her bellybutton. It's almost, almost, too much, and as a disembodied male hand reaches for her hip, it _is_ too much and he wakes, sweating, and the moment's gone. Oh, Jesus. That - that was not good at all. 

For all his faults, indiscretions, almost daily crossings of The Line, Malcolm tends to avoid fantasising about real women. Women he knows. Especially ones he works with. It's never a good omen, always a sign that the edges of his grasp on reality are becoming a little blurred, and this morning's choice of morning wood accompaniment has been the worst yet. Not the worst, that sounds harsh to Nicola. Not that she'll ever know. But certainly the most ill-advised, not least because she's married. Happily or otherwise, it doesn't make a difference, rules are rules. He refuses to be responsible for fucking up someone else's marriage for them, even when they want him to. That being said, he can't stop thinking about it. Her. About whether that is actually what she looks like, under the flattering pencil skirts and pretty blouses. Christ, he's never paid this much conscious attention to her wardrobe before. He's fucking ruined, and he knows it. By the time he's got in the shower, all tired, lazy muscles and not so sleepy racing thoughts, he's decided he might as well have his fun with it, if this really is the end of the last vestiges of his sanity. 

It feels deeply early-twenties, leaning back against the shower wall and slicking his hand up with complimentary conditioner, beyond grateful that it smells gentle and oaty rather than vibrant and citrusy. It's almost as if the universe knew. The last time he tugged himself off in the shower was probably back when he lived with Jamie, when he didn't have the luxury of a king-sized bed to himself and a lockable bedroom door. Still - there's something to be said for nostalgia, he thinks, casting his mind back to Nicola in that matching navy set. At least he knows that's halfway true - she has a bad habit of wearing her bra straps slightly too loose, meaning a particularly observant onlooker can usually catch a glimpse of the colour over the course of a whole day spent in close proximity. And she's surely far too neurotic to not wear matching knickers. In years gone by, it would've taken much more than the thought of matching underwear to get him going, but here they are. The rush of giving into it, finally admitting it to himself, combined with the firm stroke of his own hand, is enough to have him biting his bottom lip already. Christ knows this is embarassing enough without anyone hearing him. 

As excellent as this morning's mental stimulus is, there's really no need to draw it out. He's not of an age yet where a morning stiffy is something to be treasured - he simply needs to deal with it, efficiently, and try to move on. Still, he allows himself a slightly indulgent twist of his wrist now and then, imagining how it would feel to edge her backwards towards the bed, to lie her down and kiss her, firmly, deeply, to slip a hand between her thighs and feel her. He can't allow himself to take it further than that, and frankly he doesn't need to. His minds eye has wandered back to her tummy, which he thinks of with slight desperation, knowing he's very unlikely to ever get so much as a glance to prove or disprove his theories. Still, he can fill in the gaps, and as he slides his hand furiously, pants, gasps, and then spills over his fingers with a deeply undignified little yelp he's never made before, its her buttery soft skin he's thinking of, and the way the swirls of her tiger stripes make her tummy look like raspberry ripple ice cream. Fucking _hell_. This is clearly going to be a truly massive problem.


End file.
